"It was too bad for Mary to leave you in the lurch," he replied. Then, as his eyes fell on Alan's hand, he added, "That's a hard burn, my boy! Why in the world didn't you say something about it?" "What was the use?" inquired Alan calmly. "Grumbling about it wouldn't do it any good." "No; but I could," responded the doctor. "I like your pluck, but there's no use making a martyr of yourself for nothing. Come into my den and let me put something on it." And after a moment's delay, he went striding away down the street, looking at his watch as he walked. "How do people ever manage to keep house?" sighed Molly, an hour later. The dishes were washed, the rooms in order, and the two girls were luxuriously settled on the sofa, which they had drawn up in front of Alan's blazing fire on the hearth. Alan himself was stretched out on the rug, with his yellow head resting against the seat of the sofa, beside Polly's hand. Too tired to talk, the children had sat there quietly watching the fire until Molly broke the silence. "I don't see, I'm sure," returned Polly. "It never seems as if mamma did much, even when we haven't any girl; and I'm tired almost to death, with what little we've done." "I'm slowly getting to think," said Molly reflectively; "that our mothers are wonderful women. If it takes three of us to spoil one dinner, how do they get along, to do all the housekeeping and look out for us and sew and all?" "Perhaps they know more to start with," suggested Alan, ducking his head out of reach of Polly's threatening fingers. "If you hadn't been and gone and burned yourself in our service, Alan," she said, laughing, "I would turn you out of the house." But Molly was too much in earnest to heed this by-play. "I believe I'll learn to cook," she went on. "I don't mean fancy cooking, but good, plain things that one could live on." "Why not go to cooking school?" asked Polly. "Yes," rejoined Molly scornfully; "and learn to make chicken salad and angel cake and chocolate creams. That's all very well, but I want to know how to do something that will help along, when we get in a tight place. Hark! what's that?" she added, as a sudden flurry of rain swept against the windows. "That's cheerful!" said Alan, starting up. "I don't care about getting a ducking. I wish I'd gone home before this." "No matter," urged Polly. "Stay till papa comes; he'll be in at nine, and then we'll give you an umbrella and things." "Well." And Alan threw more wood on the fire and then settled back into his former position; "I may as well, for I don't believe it will rain any harder than it does now, and maybe it will stop. I say, Polly," he went on; "tell us a story, there's a good fellow." "I'm too tired to-night, Alan," Polly began; "I haven't an idea in my head and--Is that you, papa?" she called, as the front door opened and shut. "No, it's mamma," and Mrs. Adams walked into the parlor.